Going on
Charmingly
a Jane Austen fan fiction vignette
by Lucy
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"Perhaps I did not always love
him so well as I do now."
Jane Austen
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A happy,
rainy afternoon in which we indulge newlywed affections.
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The rain beat against the windowpanes with a soft
insistency, a rhythmic, hypnotic steadiness that encouraged quiet activity
within the sitting room. A fire burned in the hearth, crackling softly and
increasing the languorousness of the afternoon. No other sounds disturbed the
easy companionship of the husband and wife submitted to such unavoidable
idleness by the persistent rain.
To our dear readers this handsome couple will be easily
recognized as Mr. and Mrs. Fitzwilliam Darcy of Pemberley.
As we enter upon their privacy, Mrs. Elizabeth
DarcyÑ'Lizzy' to her family and more recently, at moments of the sweetest
intimacy, 'Eliza' to her husband of one monthÑsat upon a golden-yellow silk
settee, a small basket resting upon her lap as she searched its contents for a
green thread that might serve to elegantly lace a motif of vines upon her
feminine handiwork. Unbeknownst to herself, she sighed impatiently as she found
what she besot and set to threading her needle.
The soft, careless little sigh was more than enough to
rouse her husband from his reading. Indeed, truth be told, he had not been very
keenly attentive to the words upon the page and had been more often than not
lifting his eyes from the same that he might indulge in the simple pleasure of gazing
upon her lovely person sitting so quietly and charmingly across from him. Mr.
Darcy silently closed his book and let it come to rest upon his lap, no longer
deluding himself that a treatise on the relative merits and demerits of an
improving hand upon the natural landscape, with which he could have once whiled
away the long hours of a rainy afternoon, could now ever be sufficient to keep
his interest when his delightful and blooming wife of just one month was so
near.
He let his gaze travel freely from the crown of her
head--bent so elegantly over her task as one rich, dark curl fell coquettishly
upon the nape of her long alabaster-like neck--down her slim, lithe figure,
until it came to rest upon the tiny slippered foot just peaking out from
beneath the hem of her dress. His gaze returned slowly to her lovely,
rose-blushed countenance, but not without first lingering upon the generous
length of her leg, the graceful dexterity of her fingers, the enchanting rise
and fall of her bosom. She was all loveliness; perfect, artless loveliness and
his heart beat thick with admiration and devotion. The intelligent expression
in her eyes, the playful ease of her manners, the sharp, sweet impudence of her
conversation had captivated him from nearly the first, and he found, to his
absolute gratification, that the daily pleasures and intimate privileges of
marriage had served only to strengthen said captivation, for each day brought
some new unexpected delight in her charms and companionship.
As Mrs. Darcy passed her needle through the cloth and
pulled upon the thread she furrowed her brow and her husband smiled in
amusement, for she appeared so set at her task and yet so entirely uninterested
in the same. Perhaps sensing his
intense gaze upon her, Elizabeth Darcy raised her eyes to his own. She could
not have known how becoming was the blush that rose to her checks as she
captured his no longer misconstrued gaze within her own.
She smiled, only just. "Pray, why such importunity, sir?" inquired she,
playfully.
"May not a husband look upon a much adored wife with
impunity?"
Elizabeth's lips struggled to maintain neutrality, as her
eyebrow rose in amusement at his repartee. "Only if she is much adored," she offered.
"Then I can fear no censure," he replied evenly.
Such delicate gallantry was magnanimously rewarded with a
soft, blushing laughter, her eyes bright with mirth, her head falling gently
back and exposing her graceful neck to his enthusiastic notice. Mr. Darcy sighed
to behold such unaffectedly provocative lure, choosing to ignore it as best he
could and continuing on in a tone of counterfeit rebuke.
"Elizabeth, am I incorrect in supposing that you are
quite weary of your needlework?"
She could in no manner disguise the expression of amused
distaste from momentarily spreading across her pretty countenance. "In
truth, I am always
weary of my needlework. I hope I have other charms by which I might delight
you, for a woman of accomplishments I most certainly am not; at least, not in
such matters as this."
She lay her needlework upon her lap in quiet desperation
and looked out the window with ill-disguised longing. "I should much
rather be out of doors, but the weather will not cooperate."
Darcy smiled indulgently at the manner in which her tone
flittered about from mock diffidence to petulance. Placing his tome upon the
table, he came and stood before her, hand outstretched in invitation.
"Come."
"Wherever to?"
"You are restless and it need not be so. With such
rain the lane beneath the Spanish chestnuts that you so favor is perhaps not
open for your tireless wandering, but certainly there are halls enough within
which you might stretch your legs."
Happily and gratefully, Elizabeth placed her petite little
hand in her husband's and stood. "You must think me very inelegant and
unfashionable, always wanting to run about like some rambunctious, intractable
child."
Darcy laughed softly as he pulled her gently into his arms,
clasping her to his breast. "Not at all I assure you," he replied
with hushed truthfulness. "I think you vibrant and lively. A husband could
not be more enchanted than am I with my own, darling Eliza."
He quickly demonstrated the veracity of his words, kissing
her warmly.
She pulled away ever so slightly, without leaving his easy
embrace, only enough to lift her gaze to his face and delight in the manner his
handsome mien softened as he looked upon her with frank adoration. It was a
fine thing to be loved, and she had indulged most greedily in the gratifying
warmth of being loved from nearly the moment of their engagement, when he had
begun to show himself as all that is solicitous and charming and surprisingly
tender. She had agreed to marry him because she loved him, admired and esteemed
him, thought him the best man she had ever known, but in truth it was only
after they were engaged, during those first sweet weeks of new understanding,
that was born within her heart a more tender feeling of 'being in love'. And at last it had only been
since becoming his wife that she had learnt precisely what he had meant when he
had written to her those words, interjected almost as an aside to himself: 'the
utmost force of passion'. She understood it all well enough now, the tenderness and the
passion both.
Elizabeth Darcy was, in point of fact, a very enamored wife
one month beyond her wedding; enamored in a soft, liquidly tender fashion as
she would have never imagined; in an entirely romantic and sentimental manner
she would have once neither credited nor desired. She had never doubted that
she would love her husband faithfully and thoughtfully, but had always assumed
her heart was in the likeness of her father's: piquant in its devotion, and
reticent in its manifestation. Yet her husband's ardent devotionÑhis quiet,
insistent, gentle passionÑhad awoken in her heart an answering sentiment, had
awoken, most splendidly, an affection whose eager liveliness matched her spirit
more keenly than an impassive sentiment ever could.
She smiled, fingered carelessly his coat's lapels, patted
them and caressed them, at every moment enjoying the even, strong rise and fall
of his chest beneath her hands. She spoke now but trifling words, but the
bright, melodic, mezzo-soprano timber of her voice rang in Darcy's ears with
the same entrancing force of the finest sung aria.
ÒA walk through the halls of Pemberley sounds delightful,
and I am ever so grateful for your attentiveness, but will I not distract you from
your reading?"
ÒDistract me from my reading?Ó inquired he with a chuckle.
ÒMy dearest Elizabeth, you distracted me from my reading when you stayed at
Netherfield because you were too close, and then again when you departed
because you were too far away, and for one form of distance or another, I have
been entirely distracted since.Ó
ÒOh my!Ó she laughed. ÒWhat an unfortunate influence I have
been upon your diligence and study.Ó
Darcy raised his hand to her check that he might caress its
softness. His gaze wandered delightedly about her faceÑshe was so lovely, so
entirely lovely! ÒMay it ever be so,Ó he remarked quietly, his lips once again
finding her own.
Arm-in-arm, they soon exited the sitting room and began to
meander through the passageways of the great Hall. Elizabeth, reminded of the
visit she had made with her aunt and uncle, expressed a desire to go to the
portrait gallery. As they entered, Darcy mentioned his concern that his letter
to Master Lawrence had not yet been answered and his hope that it was
indicative of no delay in commencing with the sittings for her portrait when
they returned to town after the holiday season.
"I have never sat for a portrait," Elizabeth
observed. "Excepting for silly little sketches by sisters or neighbors. I can
not imagine I shall be able to sit calmly for so very long a stretch of
time."
"It is a tedious enough business to sit for a
portrait; but well worth the trouble. I should not like to have too much time pass
before your image is joined with my own. It would not do."
"I have a distinct fondness for this particular
portrait of yours," she remarked as they crossed the room and came to
stand in front of his likeness. "It is by far my favorite. Not the portrait
of you as an adolescent in your mother's sitting room in London or any
miniature or any future likeness will ever be so dear to my heart."
He looked at her with unfeigned curiosity; he could not
recall that she had paid it much mind when he had first toured the house with
her upon their retiring to Pemberley after they wed. "May I inquire
why?"
She released his arm, skipped suddenly sideways and hopped
forward a step. Her feet squarely planted she turned her face to his and smiled
coquettishly. "Did I never tell you how I stood right here, in this very
spot, on that infamous summer afternoon when Aunt Gardiner so fortuitously
insisted upon visiting Pemberley?"
Ignoring his quizzical expression, she returned her gaze to
his portrait. "I did, and most purposefully looked upon your very likeness
and as I did so how my heart did soften to the original."
"You have never told me this before. You said it was
all good Mrs. Reynolds' doing."
Elizabeth laughed in response. "Truthfully, it was all
your doingÑso
charming and attentive as you were. But Mrs. Reynolds will have her due, for it
was she, primarily, who allowed me to see how I had continued to fail to
rightly appreciate your character. But it was looking upon your likeness,
recognizing that smile so well captured, that softened my heart."
He reached for her hand and drew her near. ÒDid you regret
me then, Elizabeth?Ó
She cocked her head to the side and looked into his faceÑso
filled with almost boyish expectationÑand smiled. ÒNo, I did not.Ó
ÒNo?Ó he inquired evenly, singularly gratified by her
unbending forthrightness. He could never have borne empty flattery from his own
wife. He wondered if she had ever in her life knowingly spoken a falsehood or
expressed a sentiment untrue to her heart. For all he delighted in the loveliness of her visage and the
playfulness of her manners, it was this he most valued in her.
ÒNot yet; for I had not seen you. I did not know how
altered would be your conduct, how civil and gallant should be your manner when
I deserved, at best, only your coolness. While I stood here and looked upon
your portrait I understood at last the great honor of your esteem, and my heart
did grow soft
and willing. But I did not yet regret you.Ó
ÒYet?Ó
ÒYet.Ó
ÒWhen did you?Ó
ÒWhen you left me at the Inn, after I had told you of the
contents of Jane's letters. I have told you this much before, that when you
left me, your manner so grave, I thought all was lost. Then I knew I could have
loved you.Ó
ÒWhen did you know you did love me?Ó he persisted, for
although she had asked such questions during their engagement, he had not. A
strange hesitancy that it might appear immodest or vain had held his tongue
until now; a perception that her affections were more newly born than his own
and could not perhaps yet equal his own for warmth making it seem indelicate to
insist at such a time for more expression than she was yet ready to offer. He
had understood full well that her acceptance of his hand had been sincere and
heartfelt; but he had felt as well that he had yet to inspire her tenderness,
believed, indeed, where her heart was freely given her tenderness would
necessarily follow, and so had desisted from pursuing questions of her
affection. Now when he knew himself in possession of her most tender devotion,
when he felt it with each soft, caressing look of her luminous eyes, each touch
of her hand, each whispered confession in the intimacy of their dimly lit
chambers, he persisted.
She replied with her customary frankness, but did colour
retrospectively from the truth of her confession. ÒI can not say with any more
veracity than you when I began to love you, but I believe I knew, truly understood my
sentiments, only when Lady Catherine came to me. I knew then I wished to be
your wife and that only your no longer wishing the same would keep me from such
happiness as I was then confident I could find at your side.Ó
He made no reply, simply looking upon her face intently.
Smiling, she placed her arms gently around his neck. "Does the
acknowledgement of the tardiness of my affections distress you?"
Darcy laughed softlyÑhe found himself, in this last month,
often laughing. "What a singular manner of phrasing you have. As to the
principal of the matter: I care not as to the relative tardiness of your
affections, I care only that they are now, incontrovertibly, mine."
"Incontrovertibly?"
"Oh yes!"
Replied he so boldly and provocatively that she could only respond with
a laugh--a lucent, crystal laugh that sent thrills of delight through her
husband's person. She exhilarated him, thoroughly and completely exhilarated
him!
Swiftly he pulled her closer and held her fast in his arms,
properly and warmly and demandingly, and he could only exclaim his happiness.
"By God you are the most delightful creature I have ever beheld!"
"Well, whatever I am, I am your creature, incontrovertibly."
"Mine," he answered with a sigh. "Be entirely mine, now, Eliza."
He stilled the moment he spoke the words, for though
Fitzwilliam Darcy was a passionate man, he was not one wont to allow his
passions to run away with him. He had done that but once--driven to it by want
and desire for the same woman he now held so closely to his heart--and the
results had been disastrous. While it was certain that in the soft glow of
candlelight they loved with unabashed ardour, he had never once yet dared to
love her in the cool light of day. But she was so warm and charming and
delightful at this moment; so soft and yielding in his arms; and so intoxicatingly
vibrant that passion would once again command his regulation.
"Right now?" she returned, quietly.
He searched her face. There was no hesitancy therein, no
modesty, only the warmest of affections. He smiled. "Right now, if you
will."
"I will," she affirmed.
"Thank you," he whispered.
Such, to her mind, peculiar gravity could only be answered
with an ample, mischievous smile. She pressed closer to his person and gazed
adoringly into his face. "Pray, do explain, my dear husband. How is it
possible that when I first made your acquaintance I found nothing you did or
said charming, and now I find everything you say or do entirely so?"
She had spoken teasingly, playfully, but his answer was
earnest. "Because then you did not like me."
"And now?"
"Now you love me, Eliza, love me with all that is
tender and true."
"Oh, I do Fitzwilliam," she whispered, suddenly
all atremble in his embrace. "I do."
Some weeks later, when Elizabeth Darcy found herself to be
with child she was certain it had been on that rainy afternoon that the babe
had been conceived. Her husband found no reason to object to such a happy
conjecture.
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